Page 8 of Conflicted Lies

I look up at him. “What else do you think it could be?”

He shifts on his feet. “Well, that’s some demonic shit.”

My eyebrows raise in surprise. “You think we have a demon on our hands?” I turn back to the body. Now, wouldn’t that be something. I’ve never caught a demon before.

The man’s lying face down, most likely because he stumbled down the alley and then fell forward. I crouch next to him, then grab a nearby stick and use it to lift his hand.

Lucas looks away. We’re not supposed to move the body until forensics and photos are taken, and he doesn’t always agree with my methods of investigation, but if I see something that will be of use to the case, I’m not scared to skirt the rules. I study the body carefully and a muddied type of dirt on the victims’ nails grabs my attention. I lift his hand slowly and assess them closely. Beneath them is what looks like dirt… or clay.

We’re called for a murder on the very same night a renowned sculptor attends the same club with her friend. Now that is not a coincidence.

“Can I look at his profile again?” I demand of Lucas. He hands it to me, and I scan the page, spotting what I was looking for. He does sculpture as a hobby.

Immediately, I think of a little redheaded shortcake. I know it’s probably a coincidence, but it doesn’t make me any less intrigued. What if there’s a link between this body and the renowned sculpture artist Hope Ivanov? In this line of work especially one thing I’ve always done is follow my intuition.

* * *

It’s been a week since I’ve seen Hope, and to say she hasn’t left my mind would be an understatement. She’s become my obsession. More specifically, it’s very unfortunate for the little redheaded vixen we’ve trailed back the most recent victim to attending a lecture and class she was a guest host at. Granted, hundreds of people would’ve passed through those doors on the day, and the asshole could’ve pissed anyone off. He already had a record against him from his ex-girlfriend, who he used to hit. A stand-up guy. But one who fits the bill for our little serial killer.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t give me much evidence to pin against her since she was in custody close to the time of his death. Lucas has been backtracking his movements and anyone else he might’ve pissed off over the last few weeks, but my hunch says she’s somehow involved.

Maybe I’m clutching at straws, looking for evidence to pursue her. Without a doubt, it’s become my personal fixation to follow her since she’s been haunting me ever since I found her lying on that wet grass in Central Park.

I search for her online. I look into everything I can find about her and her routine, which isn’t very much. I even messaged her the first night I saw her again, but she never replied. Not that I expected her to. I wouldn’t even know if she sees her messages.

If she wasn’t going to come to me, I’d figure out how to go to her and find out what the little vixen is up to and how she might be connected with this crime.

Coincidence is not something I overlook, and I always follow my gut feelings. And my gut is telling me that Hope Ivanov is far from the sweet, shy, and critically acclaimed artist she’s made out to be. Because surely, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, especially when it’s poisoned with sin.

CHAPTER5

Hope

My first mistake is concentrating on balancing the sculpture in my hand and not looking where I’m going. I run into a hard body, knocking myself back a step. A hand grabs me, keeping me on my feet, but my heart stops as I watch in horror as the sculpture lands on the floor, shattering.

“Oh my God!” I drop to my knees in a panic, trying to scoop up all the pieces.

I stare in shock, my mind going momentarily blank.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I know I can’t save it because it’s in a million fucking pieces, but I will time to reverse.

Rage boils in my blood.

This is my space.

My sanctuary.

So who the fuck has the audacity to interrupt me?

I’m supposed to be alone, so who the fuck just ruined my piece? I look up then, pushing my glasses up my nose, and trail my gaze up from a pair of shiny black shoes, black pants, and a black t-shirt to the face I want to punch most.

Braxton Hero is standing in front of me, not seeming remorseful in the slightest that he caused to me break a piece of art that took me ages to complete.

“You should watch where you’re going,” he says. I bite my tongue and look away from his cocky grin as I start picking up the broken pieces at his feet. He makes no move to help me or even get out of my way. No, he stays exactly where he is, and I fucking hate the arrogance radiating off him.

When I don’t say anything, he drops down to a crouch. At first, I think he is going to help after all, like a normal person would. Instead, I feel his gaze boring into me through his black sunglasses, as if studying me like some kind of animal.

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